


One Last Refrain

by orphan_account



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Plug, Angst, Dildos, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Masturbation, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 12:15:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14790350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Samot says good-bye in his own way. Spoilers for Marielda.





	One Last Refrain

**Author's Note:**

> About a million years ago, someone suggested that someone write some SamSam based on [a ridiculous Greek myth about Dionysus fucking himself on a dude's tomb](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prosymnus) and I went "yeah okay." This is some HEAVY angst and also really weird in general, you've been warned.
> 
> Probably not entirely canon-compliant, don't @ me, I don't remember what Samothes' tomb looks like.

Black is traditional for funerals, so Samot wears white.

His outfit is--if not understated, certainly less overstated than his usual style of dress. Wide-legged trousers cut from undyed silk, a loose-fitting jacket over a long tunic. No embroidery or embellishment, although the craftsmanship is simply _divine_.

Samot is forced to laugh at his own joke because there’s no one there to laugh for him. He sobers at the realization and his mirth dies on his tongue. His husband is dead, his father is dying, and his son is--lost, to him. Laughter is wholly inappropriate for the occasion, even moreso than his gleaming white suit, and he cannot afford to offer any more ammunition to his critics. Let them hate his policies, his governance, his sartorial choices, but he cannot permit them to hate _him_. If he is to reign uncontested--and he _must_ , any further political instability would serve only to distract from the crisis they face. He will have their approval, even if they will not give him their love.

So he wears his hair loose and none of his usual adornments, no rings or necklaces. He selects a plain pair of drop earrings and his jacket--although plain--is white instead of black because he cannot resist pushing back, at least a little. He can only be himself, after all.

A hundred thousand lifetimes ago, Samothes professed to love him for it.

And _that_ realization is even more depressing than the first, so he shuts it off entirely and moves to refill his goblet. The wine is of an unfamiliar vintage: floral and sickeningly sweet, pressed from the fat green grapes that grow natively in the volcanic soil. There’s not much else to drink in Marielda, unless one has a particular affinity for water. It’s going to be years--generations, maybe--before he can cultivate new varieties of grapes and it’ll be even _longer_ before the wine ages into something drinkable.

It’s for the best. If there was any decent wine at hand, he’d be _staggeringly_ drunk, and then he’d forget himself and say or do something foolish at the funeral. Something more foolish, than what he intends, anyway. _That_ , at least, he will do privately, and it will be for him and him alone. What he does in public is for the rest of them, all the people of Marielda, his late husband’s subjects. He is king regnant, his grief is theirs.

So he leaves his rings and bangles nestled snug in their tidy little compartments in his tidy little dressing table. He smoothes the creases in his white trousers and adjusts the cuffs of his white jacket, and then he studies his reflection in the half-moon mirror above the dressing table.

He doesn’t look like a widower. He supposes that he ought to look gaunt or harried or grief-struck, supposes that some of what he’s feeling ought to show on his face. But the man in the mirror is unchanged by his sorrow, apparently unaffected. His skin is supple, his complexion is clear, his eyes are bright. There are, perhaps, a few streaks of silver in his gold hair, perhaps the faintest suggestion of shadows underneath his eyes. The boy-king, matured.

 _Soon I will have to shave_ , he thinks, and again, his laughter echoes in the empty room. His knuckles are white on the edge of his dressing table, his knees shake. He thinks he might be sick, except that he’s had no more than a few mouthfuls of the dreadful, sweet wine. He is the god of books and learning, but he is unschooled in grief, and he thinks that he must be losing his mind. He stares at his reflection, the stranger’s face in the mirror.

He rearranges his features like a sculptor. Add a crease between his brows, a downward curve to his perfect lips. _There_ , now he is ready. The grey of grief nicely offsets the brilliance of his white suit, the gleam of his gold hair. A victory, at last, the triumph of vanity over depression.

Except it’s all wrong and what is he thinking, he ought to really show them and show up in his usual silks with rings on his fingers and his hair dressed with little jeweled flowers to catch the light when he turns his head. He ought to show up naked, ought to show up in ashes and sackcloth, ought not to show up at all--

Somehow, somehow, Samot arrives on time to the service in his white suit, his hair loose. He feels nothing at all as he takes his place at the head of the procession, leading the mourners through the cavernous halls, towards the heart of the mausoleum where Samothes lies in state. 

He must have coal in his chest, ice water in his veins. He does not laugh or scream or cry, not even when the most-senior of the clerics dozes off in her seat, not even when the acolyte drops the censer and it falls to the flagstones with a deafening _clang!_ He sits in the high throne beside the sarcophagus and he is as cold and still and reflective as the stone that surrounds them. He catches their grief and casts it back at them, amplified. He listens to the drone of the officiant and watches the crowd. Their overall impression of him is favorable, he thinks. There is very little venom in the whispers circulating throughout the chapel, and the realization sparks a dull sort of triumph in his chest.

These people, Samothes’ people, they’re _his_ now--

During the recessional, he meets a few of the mourners’ eyes, favors a few of them with sad, stiff smiles. They are all in black, clustered like crows, and after the service they catch his hands and squawk at him. _How tragic, how awful! Our sympathies, your highness, our_ deepest _sympathies, your magnificence_. All he has to do is smile and nod and murmur his thanks for their presence, their kind words, their clammy hands on his. It is easier than he thought it would be, standing beside his husband’s beautiful sarcophagus and accepting strangers’ condolences. Sympathy is another sort of worship, he decides. He prefers orgiastic adulation of course, but this will suffice. For now.

Gradually, the flood of supplicants slows to a trickle, and after a small eternity, he is alone except for the tomb and the sentries stationed at intervals. The sky outside has darkened and there is no moon. The hall is bathed in shadow, and he can see himself reflected tenfold in the polished stone, a ghostly figure clad all in white. He is a taper, a pillar of pale flame reflected in the black marble.

“You’re dismissed,” he says, and his voice catches. It is the first time he has spoken above a whisper all day. The sentries lift their heads, their slack faces clouded with uncertainty.

“Sir?” says one, and at their compatriots’ stricken look, they correct themself. “My lord, your magnificence--”

“Leave me, it has been a long day. I desire a moment alone to--”

Strange, that this is where his grief catches him. It falls on him like predator, brings him down with its teeth in his throat. His knees buckle and he clutches at the pew to steady himself. The sentry rushes forward, their dark eyes alight with concern, and he forces himself to smile.

“I haven’t had a chance to say goodbye,” he says, and his voice barely audible even to his own ears.

The sentry nods. “Of course,” they say. “Please, my lord, if you have need--”

“Go,” he says, and they do and he is alone with that awful slab of featureless black marble.

It is chest-height, unadorned. He thinks, vaguely, that the sarcophagus should be _larger_ , large enough to contain not only his husband but all their history. It is empty, of course; there were no bones or body, nothing left of his husband besides a bastard sword and a stain on the flagstones. Samot does not know what became of the blade that pierced his husband’s heart, some unknown person spirited it away for some unknown purpose. Samot hopes they trip over their own feet and gore themselves with it.

He heaves himself up onto it, like a child. “You stubborn fool,” he whispers, palms flat against the stone.

The empty tomb offers no response.

Samot’s eyes burn and he scrubs furiously at his face with the backs of his hands. “You were meant to come _back_ ,” he scolds, “you weren’t meant to leave me to deal with this all alone, you selfish _jackass_ \--”

He empties himself of invective, pounding his fists against the marble until it warms with the heat of his body. Samot makes himself ugly with grief and rage, mouth crumpled, face red. He wipes his nose on his sleeve and feels very small. He wants guidance, aid, reassurance. He wants a father’s hand on his shoulder, wants a husband’s arms around his waist, wants a son’s sticky kiss on his cheek.

His heart aches with his wanting, but it is not enough to restore his family to him. The city does not rearrange itself to suit his whims and the black marble remains inert underneath him. So cold and lifeless, so unlike his Samothes.

His rage deserts him and he sighs, lying back on the tomb to stare up at the black ceiling. His reflection is only dimly visible there; the light of the gas lamps does not reach so far. For the first time that day he is truly alone, without even himself for company. And in that empty space, he can afford himself simple honesty.

“I miss you,” he says, and his voice is small, like a tea light in a darkened cathedral. “I would give anything to have you back.”

He reaches into his sleeve, and his fingers close around a smooth wooden shaft. _This_ is what he came here to do, his final farewell.

“I promised you, that if you won our war, you could take me in your temple--”

There’s no way to end the sentence. Samot trails off, blinks back a fresh wave of tears. He is, for once, at a loss for words. By any objective measure, Samothes _lost_ ; he is dead and Samot still living. Samothes lost, but Samot didn’t win. His ‘victory,’ such as it was, he tastes less like triumph and more like gall. 

With trembling hands, he loosens his trousers and slips them down over his hips. The stone is very cold against his bare skin; he breaks out in gooseflesh immediately. The plug in his ass--gold, naturally--clinks against the stone and a nervous laugh bubbles up from his throat. This is absurd, he’s a fool for even considering it--

He can’t resist.

Samot eases the plug out of himself and sets it to the side. He prepared himself before he dressed, two fingers and a little crystal bottle of massage oil. Very strange to find himself back in his old rooms in his husband’s home, working himself open. He’d never thought to do it for himself, for the sake of his own hungers. He had always been readying himself for his husband, for Samothes, anointing himself like a bride. Years ago, he had taken pleasure in the anticipation of the act, in the waiting and longing. Today, he took comfort from the ritual of it, the familiarity of the motions. _This_ , at least, did not have to change.

When he slides the cock into himself, his moan echoes off the marble walls, filling the chamber with sound. Chewing on his bottom lip, Samot presses his feet flat against the tomb to give himself more leverage. There’s virtually no resistance, he’s slick and loose and still dripping lube. He was, perhaps, _too_ thorough in his earlier ministrations: he’s so open that he practically can’t feel the cock until it’s fully settled inside him, the bulbous head brushing up against his prostate.

The dildo is on the smaller side, wickedly curved with a wide, knobbly head. Hand-crafted from gleaming wood, a long-ago gift from an absent god. Samothes only rarely worked in wood, he preferred the total malleability of metal to the softer character of a living medium. Wood can only be pushed so far, but metal can be cast in whatever shape the smith desires. That’s what he’d said at least, his justification for the hard, cold lines of their home.

Samot moans as he begins to fuck himself in earnest. The angle is good, and it’s been so long since he touched himself. Within moments, he’s on en edge, panting and trembling as he works himself over, massaging his prostate with the head of the dildo. He screws his eyes shut and tries to imagine what his husband might say, if he could see him now, spread out and lewd and making an obscenity of his gravesite. Would he be coldly furious or warmly indulgent, would he linger in the shadows to watch, or would he push Samot’s hands aside and fuck him himself?

Would he call him beautiful, his king, his husband? Would he say he still loved him?

Samot comes, shuddering, spilling over his abdomen. He’s made a mess of himself and of the sarcophagus, lube and come dripping down onto the polished stone. All at once, he feels immensely guilty, and wipes it up with his sleeve. He’s probably ruined the jacket, but he can’t bring himself to care. White was never really his color, anyway.

He pushes himself into a sitting position and dresses hastily, hiding the plug and the dildo in his sleeves. He’ll clean them himself, later; he can’t have Aubrey knowing the disgrace he’s brought on himself. This thing he did was for him alone and he doesn’t want anyone else to know. (He is already planning to pour wine on his soiled jacket and plead clumsiness to the laundress.) He’s had quite enough of public grief and public appearances.

He walks from the room on unsteady legs, and he does not look back over his shoulder. In the end, the tomb was only ever empty; he will have to seek catharsis elsewhere.


End file.
